


Twister

by PennyLane



Category: The Real Ghostbusters
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:18:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PennyLane/pseuds/PennyLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Egon and Peter are on a visit to Ohio, Peter runs afoul of a tornado.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twister

 

            The _Fasten Seat Belt_ sign hadn't gone out since they left New York.

 

            Egon Spengler made another unsuccessful attempt to stretch his long legs in the confining area allotted him in the airline seat and reached for the plastic cup containing his Coke. He paused, holding it in place as the plane rumbled jerkily through yet more turbulence. Trying to eat on this flight without having one's meal end up in one's lap was fast becoming an exercise in patience and dexterity.

 

            He glanced sympathetically at his colleague beside him. Peter Venkman had long ago given up trying to eat. From the greenish tint to his skin that was probably just as well. Peter was usually a fairly good airplane passenger—when the flight was smooth and the airline attendants gorgeous—but even the open flirtation of one of the stunning crew members today hadn't been enough to pull him out of his misery. Venkman was resting against the window, the shade pulled down, and even though his eyes were closed Egon knew from the tense set of his body he wasn't asleep.

 

            As if aware of Spengler's attention, the psychologist muttered tonelessly, "Now I remember why I hate flying through the Midwest in the spring."

 

            Having family in Ohio, Egon had traveled back and forth from New York often, and he was well acquainted with the bumpy rides through his home state this time of the year. Although this one, he admitted, was bumpier than most. "Are you feeling any better?"

 

            One green eye opened and regarded him. "Compared to what?"

 

            "I could ask the attendant to get you something," he offered.

 

            The other eye opened and Venkman gazed at him pathetically. "Just have them get us down in one piece, okay?" The plane shuddered again, dropping enough to cause everyone's stomach to lurch and eliciting groans from their fellow passengers. "Geez, can't this guy fly _over_ the storm instead of _through_ it!"

 

            "I'm sure he's doing the best he can," Egon said, taking a few deep breaths to get his own stomach back where it belonged. "We'll be landing soon."

 

            "Can't be too soon for me," the brown-haired man grumbled and shifted in the seat, trying to get comfortable. He grunted, pain flickering across his face, and rubbed his right shoulder.

 

            Egon noted both the sound and the movement with a frown. "Is your shoulder bothering you?"

 

            Venkman shot him a quick look and opened his mouth, probably to deny it, but something he must have seen in Egon's expression changed his mind. He shrugged, then winced at the unwise movement. "Just stiffening up. The cold air in here isn't helping, either." Carefully, he scrunched back into the seat and closed his eyes. "The first thing I'm gonna do when we get to that hotel is take a long, hot shower."

 

            Egon sat back, too, and studied his friend's features for a few moments. Peter was obviously in discomfort—perhaps more from his still-healing shoulder than a queasy stomach—but in twenty minutes they should be landing at Cincinnati. Hopefully once Venkman got his feet back on the ground and got the chance to limber up he'd be fine. At least it seemed they were through the worst of the turbulence now.

 

            Closing his own eyes, Egon thought back on the last few weeks and what had brought them both on this plane to Ohio. May had been one of the worst months the Ghostbusters had known, not because of any unusual number of busts, but because they had been dangerously understaffed all month. First he had sprained his ankle on a bust by tumbling down some rotten stairs in an old tenement. Then Winston had cracked some ribs and twisted his knee on another job. At one point, it had been just Ray and Peter taking jobs, with Egon trying to help from the sidelines. Once Egon was back on his feet, Ray broke his wrist when two poltergeists attacked at once and he fell off a porch. Then, just when Winston got back into action, Peter took a spectacular fall from a balcony and dislocated his shoulder. That's when Venkman called a halt. He said he didn't know if it was a plot or just bad luck, but he'd be damned if they were going to keep going out on busts in the shape they were in. He declared a hiatus for them all, including Janine, until they had time to heal.

 

            It had been a good call. They were all tired and the constant flow of injuries was making them all a little jumpy. Even Egon found he was going on busts wondering who was going to be next and how bad it was going to be. That was no way to work.

 

            Winston happily took the time off to spend with his family and Ray quickly accepted an invitation to be a guest speaker at a science fiction convention in the city. For himself, Egon decided to journey to Ohio to visit his Uncle Cyrus. Since Peter seemed to have no plans, other than hanging around the firehouse taking it easy, he had asked the psychologist to come with him. To his surprise, and delight, Peter agreed.

 

            Not long ago Peter had learned an old college professor, Doctor Roger Malcolm, had retired to his hometown in Ohio, which was not far from Egon's own. Malcolm had been a mentor to Peter back at Columbia, and when he had learned of Malcolm's retirement, Peter had wistfully commented to Egon he'd like the chance to see him again. Egon had taken the opportunity the other day to point out that this would be the perfect chance to do just that.

 

            Spengler allowed himself a pleased smile. With their hectic lives as Ghostbusters he and Peter didn't often get the chance to spend a lot of off-time together. He remembered when they were in college how they used to delight in dragging each other off to some activity the other one would never have gone to otherwise. Peter would take him to the races; Egon would retaliate by introducing him to the Museum of Natural History. Peter would come back with tickets to a Jets game; Egon would strike back with an invitation to a new exhibit of Aztec art at the Met. It was a game, and yet it was also a way for them to get to know one another and to explore and strengthen their growing friendship. They hadn't had time for such games recently, and Egon found he missed that. He suspected Peter did, too, because as they were leaving for the airport, Venkman had turned to him and grinned, "Just like old times, eh, Spengs?"

 

            Egon's smile deepened in contentment as the captain announced their approach to Cincinnati. Just like old times.

 

 

 

            Ohio was humid and muggy this time of year, the storms that had been pounding the area leaving the air thick and damp. Egon minded their suitcases outside the airport terminal as he waited for Peter to come with the rental car. True to Egon's predictions, as soon as Peter got off the plane and limbered up a bit he started feeling better. In fact, he volunteered to go off and take care of the car rental while Egon retrieved their bags. Spengler checked his watch; it seemed to be taking an inordinate length of time to rent a simple mid-size car.

 

            He began pacing casually back and forth, stretching his own muscles. Normally he would have stayed with his uncle while in Ohio, but Peter had never entirely forgiven Cyrus for pressuring Egon into leaving the Ghostbusters to work in the family business a few years ago. "Emotional blackmail," he had muttered darkly to Egon when it was all over and, released from his promise, Spengler was once again a Ghostbuster. The physicist sighed, remembering that unhappy time. Yes, in a way it had been 'emotional blackmail'; yet Egon _had_ made the promise and Cyrus had really done no more than ask him to honor it. Spengler gave his head a shake, banishing the memory. That was the past. Still, knowing Peter wouldn't be comfortable staying with Cyrus, he had made reservations at a small bed and breakfast only a few miles from his uncle's. It was a quiet, pleasant place, and if the truth be known, Egon preferred that himself. His cousins, the identical twins, were sure to stop by, and he planned to keep Peter as far away from Robert and Ronald as possible. Peter had only met them once, but it had been a case of instant dislike on both sides. Of course, once Peter found out Egon had no love for his twin cousins, the gloves had come off. He had taken great glee in matching wits with the pair of bookends—and despite their near-genius intelligence, they were woefully overmatched when it came to wits. A reluctant grin tugged at Egon's lips. It wasn't that he wouldn't enjoy watching the slaughter, but he was rather hoping this would be a _peaceful_ vacation.

 

            The sharp toot of a car horn brought his head around and his jaw dropped. There was Peter Venkman, shades resting rakishly on his nose, cocky grin in place, sitting proudly behind the wheel of the smallest convertible Egon had ever seen in his life. And it was red. It was the smallest, reddest _car_ he had ever seen.

 

            "Well come on, big guy. What are you waiting for?"

 

            Egon eyed the tiny vehicle with open dismay. "If this were a fish, we'd have to throw it back."

 

            If anything, Venkman's grin widened as he jumped out of the car and positively bounded over to the curb where Egon was standing. "C'mon, Spengs, we're on _vacation_ ," he wheedled, slinging an arm around the physicist's shoulders. "It's time to have some _fun_."

 

            "I'm quite able to have 'fun' without pouring myself into...whatever that is," he insisted, gesturing at the vehicle. He turned to the younger man in exasperation. "Peter, where are we supposed to put our _luggage_?"

 

            "Oh, it has a big trunk," Venkman answered airily, and snagged his suitcase from the curb. "Come on, ol' buddy. We're burnin' daylight."

 

            "Burning daylight?" With a long-suffering sigh, Spengler followed. He had known as soon as he saw that grin on Peter's face he would lose this argument. Well, maybe it wouldn't be too bad, he admitted grudgingly, watching Peter expertly wedge their suitcases into the trunk. And besides, this really wasn't any different than the times Peter would breeze into his lab on any given day, waving football tickets under his nose or coaxing him to the race track or the movies for a few hours to get him away from work for a while. Racing across Ohio in a toy car with the top down so the wind could rip their hair to shreds was just another way for Peter to turn his world upside down a little.

 

            A gleam lit the physicist's eyes as he carefully eased his lengthy body into the passenger seat. Well, two could play that game. He happened to know there was an excellent exhibit of pre-Columbian artifacts at a museum in Cincinnati and he planned to make sure they had enough time to see it.

 

            "See, Spengs, this isn't so bad now, is it?" Venkman was behind the wheel, slipping a cassette into the tape deck.

 

            Egon pushed his glasses up his nose. _Paybacks are hell, Venkman._ "No, Peter," he said, with a deadly calm smile. "This isn't bad at all."

 

            With a whoop, Peter shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb to the strains of Born to be Wild blaring on the tape player.

 

 

 

            A light breeze out of the west brushed their faces as they sat on the wrap-around porch of the bed and breakfast house, sipping mint-favored iced tea. It was nearly dark, and in the distance they could see flashes of lightning and hear the faint booming of thunder. The proprietress, Rose McKean, was as much an establishment in this part of Ohio as was the Spengler family and she was spirited and spry yet at eighty-one. She had welcomed them warmly, fed them until they could eat no more, then left them with a pitcher of iced tea on her expansive, inviting porch so they could enjoy the night and each other's company.

 

            And for the last few hours they had been doing exactly that. Released for a time from the pressures of their job, they were free to sit back and—as Peter had laughingly dubbed it—spend some 'quality time' together. They probed, explored, argued, debated, teased, questioned, sparred, reminisced and laughed. It reminded Egon all over again why they had become friends—and why their friendship had deepened and lasted as it had.

 

            The two had lapsed into a comfortable silence a few minutes ago and Peter's rocking chair was creaking steadily as he rocked back and forth, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Egon took a deep breath of the cooling night air and nearly sighed out loud. After living so long in the City That Never Sleeps, he found the peacefulness welcome. Even Venkman, that inveterate city boy, seemed to be enjoying the rural quiet.

 

            As if reading his thoughts, Peter murmured, "This is okay, Spengs."

 

            Spengler's mouth curved in a dry smile. "Not too quiet for you, Peter?"

 

            "Quiet's okay," the psychologist allowed, taking another sip of tea. "Not too much, mind you. But some is okay. Like this." He sat up a little straighter as the western sky suddenly lit up in an incredible display of lightning. "Wow. Is that headed this way?"

 

            Egon frowned. "The weather is extremely unsettled right now and will be for the next day or two. We'll have to keep alert. The whole area is under a tornado watch tonight. If you hear the siren during the night—"

 

            "Siren?"

 

            "Tornado warning."

 

            Peter stared at him. "You guys have sirens for tornados?" Venkman took a thoughtful drink of his tea. "Excuse me, professor, but it seems to me if you wait to hear the siren, it's probably already too late."

 

            "Not always. This is the midwest, Peter. We've had a lot of experience with twisters—and out here you can literally see them coming for miles." Spengler took a drink from his own glass. "But, yes," he admitted, "sometimes it is too late." Changing the subject, he pulled a road map out of his pocket. "Here. I've marked the routes for you to take to get to Doctor Malcolm's. I've chosen secondary roads instead of interstates for the scenery and directness."

 

            "What about speed traps?" Venkman asked innocently.

 

            Spengler's retort was a stern look.

 

            "Okay, forget I asked."

 

            The physicist handed him the map, watching as he tucked it away in his pocket. "Keep listening to your radio tomorrow," he said seriously, "and watch the sky. If the weather starts to turn bad while you're in Fairmount, it might be better for you to stay the night there instead of driving back."

 

            Peter looked at him, eyebrows raised. "I've driven in storms before, Mother."

 

            Egon frowned disapproval. "I'm not talking about 'storms', Peter. I'm talking about tornados. You do not drive through tornados—and you do not outrun them."

 

            Venkman cut off the lecture with a wave of his hand. "Geez, Egon, you make it sound like there's a tornado out there with my name on it," he complained. "You're the odds man; what are the odds of me, a kid from Brooklyn, running into a tornado out here in O-hi-o, I ask you."

 

            In a smoothly automatic gesture, Spengler pulled his calculator from his shirt pocket and immediately began entering an equasion. "Actually, Peter—"

 

            He never got to finish. Venkman snatched the small instrument out of his hands and shook his finger in mock disapproval. "Egon, you promised," he said sternly. "This is a _vacation_. You said you'd leave this home."

 

            Egon met his gaze calmly. "I lied."

 

            "Egon Spengler lying. Now I know I'm on vacation. Or in an alternate universe." Without warning, Peter tossed the calculator back, grinning at the glare Egon gave him when he had to juggle it to keep it from slipping through his fingers.

 

            "Seriously, Peter," the physicist continued, carefully tucking his calculator out of harm's way. "The whole area is teaming with unsettled weather right now; conditions will be right for tornados, and they can appear without any warning. You're not familiar with the roads or the area, so keep alert."

 

            His eyes twinkling with mischief, Venkman leaned forward and lightly clinked his glass against Egon's. "Peter Venkman is _always_ alert. And trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful..."

 

 

 

            Egon stood on the small porch of his uncle's house and surveyed the darkening, churning sky with growing trepidation. It wasn't yet dusk, but it looked like midnight. The wind was picking up to gale-force speed and in the distance thick bolts of lightning shot straight down from the sky as if hurled by Thor himself.

 

            "This one's going to be bad."

 

            Spengler turned at the sound of his uncle's voice, nodding agreement. "I'm afraid so." Both scientists stood, braced against the fierce wind, studying the violent weather with reluctant fascination. Egon glanced at his watch, wondering if Peter had left Fairmount yet, or whether he had decided to stay the night. No, he acknowledged unwillingly; if Peter had decided to stay in Fairmount, he would have called. No doubt his friend had already left Malcolm's and was heading back to here to join Egon and Cyrus for dinner, as they had planned.

 

            Egon felt a hand descend on his shoulder. "I'm sure Peter has enough sense to take cover if he runs into the storm."

 

            "He's bound to run into the storm," Spengler pointed out, a little testily. "It would be impossible _not_ to." Then, hearing his sharp tone, he winced. _I must be more worried than I thought._ "I'm sorry, Uncle Cyrus. I didn't mean to—"

 

            "I know." The older man tightened his hand briefly before removing it from Egon's shoulder. "I know you're concerned, but Peter seems to be a man well able to look after himself."

 

            The physicist acknowledged the truth of that statement with a brief nod. But how to explain to his uncle—a man who had found it nearly impossible to believe in ghosts even when faced with the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—about the nagging feeling that had taken residence in the back of his mind, whispering to him that Peter was in trouble. It was more than just the to-be-expected concern brought on by the storm and his knowledge of the dangers of such weather. He'd had this feeling before—not only about Peter, but Ray as well—and he had been right each time. "He is," he said finally. "I just hope—" What he was going to say was drowned out by the sudden wailing of a too-familiar siren.

 

            "We'd better get inside," Cyrus said abruptly as a sudden violent gust of wind nearly took them off their feet. "Come on," he directed, grabbing his nephew's arm and pulling him toward the house.

 

            But Egon, who had been watching the roiling clouds in the distance, pulled up, gasping, "Uncle, look!"

 

            Cyrus looked around sharply, his eyes widening as he saw it. "Inside," he snapped. "Now!"

 

            Egon hesitated long enough to stare in alarm at the mammoth tornado that was racing across the plains toward town, then turned and quickly followed his uncle into the house. As he fought the incredible wind to force the door shut behind him, he shot one last, deeply worried look outside. _For God's sake, Peter, take cover._

 

 

 

            Peter Venkman was fighting like mad just to keep the little convertible on the road. From the west, dark dangerous clouds seemed to be racing to overtake him, and his fingers were beginning to cramp from the death grip he had on the steering wheel. Rain lashed across the road, slamming against the windshield in drops so large he was running the wipers at full speed and could still barely keep the window clear. Maybe he should've stayed in Fairmount like Egon suggested. "No maybe about it," he muttered under his breath. "Now you can listen to Egon say 'I told you so' all the way home. Way to go, Pete." He cursed under his breath as the rain abruptly turned to hail, pelting the windshield and soft top of the car. "This does not look good," he told himself grimly. Didn't hail usually fall just before a tornado hit?

 

            The car slid on the slick road and he quickly fought it back under control. His neck muscles were tight with tension and he tried to rotate his aching right shoulder, grimacing at the effect. Something wasn't right in there, but a throbbing shoulder was the least of his worries right now.

 

            The hail stopped as quickly as it had started, and he sighed at the respite. Maybe the storm was veering away. Maybe he had outdriven it. Maybe... What the hell was that roaring? It sounded like a jet was trying to land on the car. He looked around, trying to locate the source of the noise. It didn't take long. He slammed on the brakes, sending the little convertible skidding and screaming across the road until he finally got it stopped. Then he jumped out, his heart pounding in his ears, as he stared in disbelief at what was heading his way. It was a tornado. A perfectly formed, monstrous twister. It looked like every video of a tornado he had ever seen on the news. And it was racing toward him. He heard his mouth say, "Holy shit," at the same time the words _I don't believe we're in Kansas anymore, Toto_ ran inanely through his mind.

 

            "Run! Get away from the car!"

 

            Who said that? Looking around wildly, he managed to make out a car—the only other vehicle he had seen in the last half hour—sitting by the side of the road in the distance, its headlights barely discernable in the murkiness. Ahead of the car, waving his arms in a bid for attention, was a bearded man in a work shirt and jeans.

 

            "Take cover! In the ditch!" the man yelled above the roar.

 

            Peter glanced at his car. Good point. This thing would turn into a guided missile if the wind got under it. With one last terrified look at the black monster churning toward him, Venkman spun away and ran as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. He had nearly reached the dubious safety of the ditch when a sharp cracking noise sounded behind him. Grimly ignoring it, he prepared to dive to the ground, but before he could make the move, the whole world exploded. In that one split second before he lost consciousness, his last coherent thought was, _You were right, Egon. You can't outrun 'em...._

 

 

 

            Jerry Oldham cautiously lifted his head from his protective position over his wife and looked around. It was over. Rain was falling again, but it was a light patter of raindrops, nothing sinister or threatening. Slowly, he pushed himself up. "You okay, Jen?"

 

            "I'm okay. Is it over?" The long-haired woman lifted her own head and he saw she had streaks of mud over her face. Jen was one of the few women he knew who could carry off that look, he thought with a flash of I-can't-believe-I'm-still-alive humor.

 

            "It's over," he assured her, and helped her up. As they sat up in the wet grass, they both saw the overturned dump truck at the same time.

 

            Jen gasped. "Oh, god! Jerry, look!"

 

            Oldham scrambled to his feet, pulling his wife up with him. He looked around in the direction he had last seen the man from the red car running, and let out his breath in a hiss. "Oh, no." The brown-haired man was lying sprawled face-down by the side of the road and on top of him lay a large part of a billboard that had been uprooted by the wind. "Jen, go see to him," he directed, pointing at the downed man. "I'll go see about the trucker."

 

            Jen followed his gaze, seeing the driver of the car for the first time. "Jerry, do you think he's...?"

 

            He gave his wife's arm a little squeeze. "I don't know, hon. But we've got to check him out."

 

            The woman hesitated only an instant, then stiffened her shoulders and ran over to the still figure. Jerry watched her go, remembering all over again why it was he had fallen so in love with her. Then he took a bolstering breath and hurried over to the dump truck that was lying on its side, sparing his own pick-up truck a grateful glance as he passed by. True to the nature of tornados, they could cut a swath of destruction that would obliterate everything in its path, yet leave a structure a few feet away untouched.

 

            He didn't realize until he actually reached the upset dump truck that the little red car was _underneath_ it. He stared at it for a moment in disbelief. The dump truck had flattened it, covering it so completely that only a small part of the trunk and twisted license plate peeked out from underneath its bulk. "Mister, you don't know how lucky you were," he muttered, shooting a quick glance at where his wife was kneeling by the unconscious stranger. But then, he was only lucky if he was still alive.

 

            Steeling himself for what he was afraid he was going to find inside the cab, Oldham used the rear wheel to pull himself up and inched his way over to the door. The door was understandably jammed, but the window was open and he pulled himself up and looked in, nearly losing his lunch at what he saw. No way could this guy be alive. But he swallowed hard, took a deep breath and stuck his arm inside, placing his hand against the man's neck to check for a pulse. A few moments later he pulled his arm back out again and jumped to the ground.

 

            "Jerry! Jerry, help me get this off him! He's alive!"

 

            Turning his thoughts away from someone he couldn't help, Oldham raced to his wife's side. Jen was struggling to pull a heavy post off the man's arm.

 

            "He's alive," she repeated, panting with the effort. "But his pulse is real weak. What about the driver?" she asked. His headshake made her bite her lip, but she quickly returned her attention to the injured man.

 

            Together, they soon had the debris removed from the stranger, and they both ran hands over his extremities, checking for broken bones.

 

            Jen stopped with her hand on his right arm. "His arm's broken," she reported, "and he's bleeding pretty badly from a gash on his head."

 

            Jerry saw she had already ripped the tail of her shirt—protected from the mud by the jacket she had been wearing—and used it to wrap around his head. "This leg and arm seem to be okay," he told her, "but I don't know about internal injuries."

 

            Jen sat back on her knees and looked at him. "What do we do? Do we go for help, try to find a phone?"

 

            He shook his head. "Take too long to go for help, and we don't even know if the phones are still working."

 

            "So we take him ourselves," she decided. "Sheridan Hospital is closest."

 

            Jerry turned to gaze off in the direction the twister had gone. "Honey, we don't even know if there _is_ a Sheridan Hospital anymore," he said evenly. "We don't even know if there's still a _Sheridan_. The way that thing was moving, they had to have been hit hard, and if that's so, that hospital's going to have its hands full."

 

            The blonde woman chewed her bottom lip for a moment. "That new medical center in Fulton," she said suddenly. "They're set up for emergencies."

 

            Oldham nodded agreement. "Don't see where we have much choice. This guy needs help and that's his best chance. Come on, Jen, help me ease him over and we'll get that arm immobilized, then we'll get him in the back of the truck."

 

            "What about his family?" she asked as they carefully eased the unconscious man over onto his back. "Should we try to find out who he is?"

 

            Oldham shook his head as he gently tucked the broken right arm into the man's jacket and pulled the zipper up to hold it there. "We'll leave that to the hospital. You take his feet, hon."

 

            As the Oldhams lifted the stranger from the ground and carried him to their pick-up, neither one of them noticed his wallet slip out of his pocket and drop into the tall, roadside grass.

 

 

 

            When Egon stepped out onto the porch of his uncle's house, his first thought was that it looked like a bomb had gone off in Sheridan. His second thought was that he and Cyrus had been very, very lucky. On the next block he could see flattened ruins where houses once stood, yet the only damage to the Spengler property was an uprooted ancient oak in the front yard and several shutters torn from the windows. He let out an unsteady breath. "My god."

 

            Cyrus stepped up beside him. Both could hear sirens in the distance as the town's emergency systems came alive. "They're going to need help," the elder man said quietly, his voice steady with an effort. "I'm going to offer my assistance." He looked at Egon expectantly.

 

            The physicist's eyes were drawn to the west. "I need to borrow your car, Uncle," he said without one shred of apology. "Peter was out there in this, and I have to try to find him." He turned then, his eyes locking with Cyrus'. "I have to make sure he's all right."

 

            The older man looked at him a moment, his expression unreadable; then his features softened. "Of course you do," he agreed, reaching into his pants pocket. Pulling out a set of keys, he readily handed them over. "I understand your concern, but I'm sure Peter is fine."

 

            Egon accepted the keys with a nod of thanks, already turning away toward the garage. "I wish I shared your confidence," he muttered grimly, and sprinted for the car.

 

 

 

            Egon's mouth was set in a tight, grim line by the time he finally made it out of town. Street after street had been blocked off by fallen trees or wires down or debris from destroyed houses. The phones were out, as was the electricity, and he had flicked on the car radio as much to try to soothe his jangled nerves as to garner information about the extent of the damage. What he heard wasn't encouraging. Although details were sparse as yet, it was obvious the tornado had done widespread damage. Sheridan had taken a direct hit, as had the trailer park to the south of town. "Why do they always go for trailer parks?" he muttered distractedly. Not satisfied with that destruction, the twister had veered to the east and hit Melrose, a small town a few miles from Sheridan. There was no word yet on casualties, but they were expected to be high, and it was announced the governor had already mobilized the National Guard to help with clean-up and control possible looting.

 

            Egon listened to all this with half-an-ear as he tore down the small two-lane road that was the route he had laid out for Peter. Everywhere there were signs that the twister had passed by. Grass had been flattened by the forceful winds, billboards twisted or splintered, and at one point so much debris covered the road that he had to cut through a field to keep going. But keep going he did, his eyes constantly searching for any sign Peter had passed by. But he saw no little red car, found no brown-haired hitchhiker along the road. He found nothing.

 

            His heartbeat jumped in apprehension as he saw the flash of red and blue lights up ahead. A uniformed state trooper motioned for him to stop and he braked to a halt, quickly lowering the window.

 

            "I'm sorry, sir, we've got an accident ahead blocking the road. We're closing—"

 

            "Officer, I'm looking for a friend," Egon interrupted preemptively. "I have to get through—"

 

            "Egon?" The police officer bent down to get a better look at the driver and Egon found himself staring into a vaguely familiar face.

 

            "Carl," he said in some relief, recognizing someone he had grown up with in Sheridan but hadn't seen during his last couple of visits.

 

            "Heard you were back in town," the mustached man grinned. "Picked a hellulva time to come for a visit."

 

            Spengler nodded impatiently. "I'm looking for my friend, Carl. He was driving back from Fairmount on this road. He never made it back to Sheridan and I'm worried he got caught in that storm."

 

            Carl Masters shook his head. "Any traffic from Fairmount's been turned back. We've got an overturned dump truck up there; driver was killed. It's going to take a while to clear the road. What was he driving?"

 

            "Red car, convertible. It was a rental—" Egon broke off his clipped recital as he noticed the odd look crossing Masters' face. "What is it?" he demanded. "What's wrong?"

 

            "Red car," Carl repeated in a carefully neutral voice. "You don't happen to know the license plates—"

 

            Spengler didn't wait for the rest of the question. He bolted from the car, tearing free of the law officer's hasty grab, and ran toward the accident scene as fast as his shaking legs would take him. He barely registered the presence of Carl Masters by his side.

 

            "Egon, slow down! Wait a minute! You don't want to—"

 

            The physicist rounded the overturned dump truck and came to a sudden, bone-jarring halt, the blood draining from his face. Beneath the back of the truck, peeking out almost shyly, was some flattened red metal, and twisted but still attached, was the license plate of a rental car. Egon stared dumbly at the combination of letters and numbers he had automatically memorized while Peter had stowed their suitcases at the airport. The roaring in his ears suddenly became an explosion. Spinning away, he stumbled to the edge of the road, dropped to his knees, and was violently sick. Even after his stomach was empty, he continued to heave helplessly, his entire body shaking with shock and horror as he tried to support himself on arms that felt like rubber. "No," he managed to grate out hoarsely, "no, no, _no_!" A sob caught in his throat. "Please, no," he whispered brokenly.

 

            It was some time before he became aware of a hand on his shoulder and the handkerchief that was held solicitously in front of his face. He accepted it unconsciously and wiped his face, still seeing the horrifying, mind-numbing picture of that flattened, demolished automobile. "Peter..." he choked, and his stomach heaved again. He bent over, retching uncontrollably as the horror hit again. He didn't know how long he spent like that, his arms wrapped around his roiling stomach, until he finally got the spasms under control. It was only then he became aware that Carl Masters was hunched down beside him.

 

            The policeman cleared his throat. "We don't know that anyone was actually in that car," he said carefully. "The truck driver was D.O.A.; as far as we know there weren't any witnesses."

 

            Spengler's head shot around, his face flooded with a look of desperate hope. "P-Peter might not have been in the car?"

 

            Masters shifted uneasily, obviously reluctant to hold out hope under the circumstances. "Well, there's really no way to _tell_ , Egon."

 

            That was all the physicist needed to hear, the only straw he needed to be offered. He grasped it and held onto it for all he was worth. "We have to find out for sure!"

 

            Egon made a move to stand, but Masters' strong hand kept him where he was. "It's going to be hours before we know that," he said quietly, his eyes warm with compassion. "We just don't have the equipment right now to move that thing."

 

            Egon struggled stubbornly to shrug off the officer's grasp. "But if Peter's in there—"

 

            "If your friend is in there," Carl broke in gently, "there's nothing we can do for him, Egon." He tightened his hand in a squeeze. "I'm sorry." He looked away from Spengler for a moment and took a breath. "Look, it's possible he wasn't in the car when the truck hit it and got a ride to Sheridan. Or it's possible he was out of the car and got hurt and a motorist took him—"

 

            "—to the hospital," Egon interrupted eagerly, jumping to his feet. His legs, however, weren't quite prepared for the challenge and he stumbled until Carl caught his arms.

 

            "Are you sure you're all right?" Masters asked dubiously.

 

            The blond man nodded, determination and hope sending a surge of new strength through his body. "I've got to get to the hospital. Perhaps someone took Peter in. He could be lying there hurt or unconscious, or..." He let his voice trail off at the look of open sympathy on the law officer's face, then straightened his spine with an effort. "How long before...you know?" he asked, deliberately not looking at the accident scene again.

 

            "All the heavy equipment's being used for emergency rescue," Masters said apologetically. "It'll be hours..."

 

            Spengler nodded, his jaw tight. "If I don't find anything at the hospital," he said in a voice that fairly vibrated with his effort to keep it steady, "I'll be back." Without waiting to see the look on Masters' face, Egon spun away and ran for his uncle's car.

 

 

 

            Sheridan Hospital looked like it had been picked up and dropped into the middle of a war zone. The hospital itself appeared to have been spared serious damage, but scores of injured people were wandering around dazedly in the parking lot or sprawled on the macadam, and hospital personnel had established a hasty triage area near the emergency room entrance.

 

            Egon made his way through the sea of victims, many of them with broken bones, most of them seemingly in shock, anxiously searching each face for one in particular. Since electricity was out in the rest of town, the hospital must be working off emergency generators because the parking lot lights were on, casting eerie illumination on the incredible scene. As he hurried toward the entrance, his eyes flicking over each victim, his seeking gaze spotted a thatch of dark, brown hair. The owner was sitting on the macadam under a light and was wrapped in a hospital blanket, his face lowered and hidden by shadows. The size of the wiry frame was right, the dark hair the correct color, even the length of the hair at the nape of the neck was just like...

 

            "Peter!" Egon's booming cry brought several heads around, but he ignored the blankly curious stares as he sped to the side of the huddled figure and dropped to his knees. "Peter?" With a hand quaking with a mixture of fear and hope, he gripped the man's blanket-clad shoulder and gave it a gentle shake, freezing when an unfamiliar face and dazed brown eyes rose to meet his. The boy couldn't have been more than seventeen or so, his thin pale face unnervingly white in the garish illumination of the light directly overhead.

 

            "Are you a doctor?" the boy asked in a thin, quavery voice. "Is my brother okay? They took him inside. He was bleedin' real bad."

 

            Quickly collecting himself, Egon said gently, "No, I'm not a doctor. But I'm sure they're doing everything they can for your brother. This is a very fine hospital." The boy looked at him blankly, as if he didn't understand what Egon was saying, couldn't grasp the enormity of what was happening around him. Perhaps he couldn't. The physicist pulled the blanket a little more snugly around the trembling form. "I'm sure everything will be fine. You just rest and try not to worry."

 

            The teenager gave him an uncomprehending look, then nodded wearily and dropped his head again as if it was too much of an effort to hold it up any longer. Egon took a moment to squeeze one sagged shoulder in silent support, then climbed stiffly to his feet and continued his dogged search. The aching look of loss in those brown eyes remained with him, however, chilling him in a way that no amount of warmth would ever be able to banish.

 

            Inside the hospital, the emergency room was a picture of barely-controlled chaos. It was a continuation of the scene in the parking lot, as if it had all spilled over inside because there was no place else to go. Injured people were sprawled in chairs, on the floor, in the hallways. The sounds of moans and sobbing—diffused outside because of the openness—filled the air in the contained area.

 

            As he had outside, Spengler quickly scanned each face, each form, hoping against hope that he would suddenly hear a familiar tenor voice raised above the pandemonium calling his name. But long moments later he sagged, his hopes dashed again.

 

            In the next instant, however, he forced stiffness into his back and determinedly made his way through the milling crowd to the emergency room reception station. It was tenanted by two nurses—probably half its usual work force. One of them, a young rail-thin woman with what could best be described as a buzz haircut, had a cellular phone pressed to one ear, a hand pressed to the other as she strained to hear the person on the other end of the phone. The second nurse, a stout black woman with touches of white in her dark, curly hair, was scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

 

            Egon squeezed his way to the counter and raised his voice above the din. "Excuse me."

 

            Without looking up, she asked bluntly, "Are you injured?"

 

            "No, I'm—"

 

            "This area is for injured only. You'll have to wait outside."

 

            "I'm looking for someone," he continued doggedly, determined to make her listen. "He may have been involved in an accident when the tornado hit and brought here."

 

            At that, she did look up, briefly, then returned her attention to her charts. Egon knew, of course, that professional caretakers couldn't afford to let themselves become affected by the tragedies that surrounded them every day; one of the first lessons they learned in their profession was to keep themselves separate from the pain and grief they had to deal with on a daily basis. Still, he often wondered how they managed to stay sane, especially when faced with a disaster of this magnitude. It was obvious from just his brief observation that Sheridan Hospital's resources were strained to the limit.

 

            "Have you checked outside and in here?"

 

            "Yes."

 

            Still working on her charts, she nodded toward a corner of the room where a close knot of people were gathered. "We have a list posted of all the admitted patients so far. It's complete as of this minute. If you don't find the name there, you can wait outside; new victims are being brought in all the time. This area is for injured only." She rattled the speech off as if by rote, and he wondered how many times she had delivered it that evening to others seeking news of lost relatives or friends.

 

            Nodding his comprehension, Egon hurried over to the small, tight crowd of people gathered in front of a large sheet of paper on the wall. Luckily, he was tall enough to see over most of the others, so he wasn't forced to elbow his way through. He read the hastily hand-printed chart eagerly, reached the bottom, then read it again, more slowly this time. Afterwards, he continued to stand there, too defeated for the moment to even move. Then he turned away, his mind spinning as he desperately sought more options.

 

            "Come on, genius, _think_ ," he muttered, running his hand distractedly through his hair. "There's got to be other places to look, more you can do—" Snapping around, he marched quickly back to the nurses' station. "Excuse me," he said brusquely.

 

            The young woman with the military haircut was still on the cellular phone and the black nurse was handing over charts to harried-looking orderlies and pointing out the next patients to take. She ignored Egon as she began writing numbers next to names on an erasable board on the wall, probably indicating the order in which they were to be admitted.

 

            " _Excuse me_ ," he repeated, anger and frustration sharpening his bass voice.

 

            The stout nurse paid him no attention as she gathered up more charts and called for another orderly. Just when Egon was about to lean across the counter and grab her sleeve to gain her attention, the other nurse appeared in front of him. With her short cropped hair, wide hazel eyes and slender build she looked rather like a waif, but her tone was brisk and professional. "Can I help you, sir?"

 

            "I'm looking for someone," he explained quickly, determined to keep her attention before something else interfered. "His name wasn't on the list. I was wondering if you have any unidentified patients—"

 

            "John Does? Yes, we do." She pulled out several files from a shelf under a counter and laid them on top. "Male, you say?" He nodded and she laid two files aside without opening them. Turning her attention to the other three, she opened the first one and read, "Black male, mid-forties—"

 

            "No."

 

            Without missing a beat, she laid that file aside and opened the next. "Male caucasian, sixty to sixty-five—"

 

            He shook his head impatiently. "No."

 

            Efficiently flipping open the last file, she read, "Male caucasian, early thirties, brown hair—" Egon leaned forward eagerly, holding his breath—"brown eyes, mustache—"

 

            He sank back, defeated. "No," he said hoarsely.

 

            The nurse closed the last file, and hazel eyes, flecked with green, rested on his face for a moment. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "Perhaps he just hasn't been brought in yet." Nodding numbly, Spengler started to turn away, then stopped when the nurse hesitantly said, "Sir?" He looked back, stiffening at the open compassion he saw in her eyes. "You may want to check downstairs," she suggested gently.

 

            "Downstairs?" he repeated blankly. Then his gaze flicked to the directory posted on the wall behind the nurse and his lids slid shut. "Morgue," he whispered, the word catching in his throat.

 

            The weight of something warm on his hand made his eyes snap open to find the nurse covering his hand with one of her own. "I hope you find your friend," she said quietly, "and I hope he's all right."

 

            Nodding, he managed a "Thank you," before turning away and moving stiffly toward the stairs.

 

            In contrast to the noise and activity in the emergency room, the basement, which housed Sheridan's morgue, was unnervingly quiet. Egon's footfalls echoed as he walked down the hallway, hesitation and dread slowing his usual self-assured stride. As he passed an open doorway, the sound of muted sobbing inside made him stop. The room appeared to be a small waiting area and when he looked inside, he saw a man, perhaps his own age or a few years younger, shoulder-length hair falling over his face as he sobbed quietly. _Loss_. Pulling himself away from the scene, Egon continued down the hallway, his feet picking up speed in direct correlation to his increasing apprehension.

 

            The coroner's office was at the end of the hallway and Egon fairly burst inside, causing the white-coated man washing his hands at the sink to look around sharply. "May I help you?"

 

            Egon took a deep breath to settle his pounding heart; it had been doing unhealthy flip-flops ever since he had come down here. "I'm looking for a friend," he began, then stopped when his mouth went dry.

 

            The other man nodded his understanding and walked over to his desk, extending his hand. "I'm Doctor Walker."

 

            Spengler accepted the handshake automatically. "Egon Spengler."

 

            Walker looked at him as he pulled a file out of his desk drawer. "Any relation to Cyrus Spengler?"

 

            "He's my uncle."

 

            The physician looked at him with new interest. "Then you're Egon Spengler, the Ghostbuster?" When Egon nodded somewhat impatiently, Walker hastily changed subjects. "Who is it you're looking for, Doctor Spengler?"

 

            "His name is Peter Venkman."

 

            Walker's eyebrows climbed a fraction, indicating he probably recognized Peter's name as well, then shook his head. "We've had several DOA's brought in tonight, but no one with that identity." Then he cleared his throat. "We do have one John Doe, however," he continued, watching Egon closely. "Caucasian, mid-thirties, brown hair—"

 

            "Let me see him," Spengler demanded, his voice a rasp.

 

            Walker looked as though he wanted to say something, then changed his mind. Motioning the physicist to follow him, he led the way out of his office and down the hallway.

 

            Egon could feel the chill of the air as Walker opened the door to the refrigerated storage room. As they stepped inside, his sense of smell automatically catalogued the various antiseptic odors, but he was completely unaware of that unconscious exercise as his eyes fixed on a metal table in the middle of the room with a sheet-covered form on top.

 

            Walker moved to the table, warning, "I'm afraid he's pretty badly cut up. He got hit with flying glass from a plate-glass window." Hesitating over the body, he looked at Egon, waited until the blond man gave a stiff nod, then slowly lifted the edge of the sheet.

 

            Egon nearly gagged at the sight. The combination of horrific injuries and the thatch of brown hair that was almost exactly the right color made his knees go weak. The next thing he knew Walker's hand was gripping his arm and he was being firmly led away from the table.

 

            They stopped when they reached the doorway, the physician inquiring, "Are you okay?"

 

            Gulping in a large chunk of air, Egon could only nod.

 

            "Was that—"

 

            Spengler shook his head abruptly. "No. That's not Peter." Closing his eyes momentarily, he leaned weakly against the door frame and rubbed his eyes with a shaking hand. "It's not Peter."

 

 

 

            The cool night air was almost chilling after the stuffiness in the hospital. Egon stood in the center of the parking lot and stared at the sobbing, moaning huddled forms on the ground. _Loss_. Tearing his eyes away from the scene, he raised his gaze to stare at the dark, star-filled sky. "Where are you, Peter?" he whispered. "Where _are_ you?"

 

            His mind, usually so organized, so free of clutter, now seemed in chaos, his thoughts totally disorganized. He squeezed his eyes shut, blanking out everything—the stars, the hospital, the injured that surrounded him—and tried to force order and coherency into his thoughts.

 

            Peter wasn't at the hospital.

 

            Options?

 

            He could have been injured, picked up by a motorist and taken to...Fairmount? But there was no hospital in Fairmount; Sheridan had the closest hospital. If he had been taken anywhere, it should be here.

 

            He could have been on foot and not injured. In which case he would have tried to make his way back to Sheridan—either to the boarding house or Cyrus'.

 

            There was a third option, but Egon refused to let his mind touch on that.

 

            Letting out a deeply-held breath, he turned away from the hospital and strode back to the car. First he would check at the boarding house and then at his uncle's. Peter had to be at one of those places. He just had to be.

 

 

 

            Ray Stantz was happily humming off-key as he turned Ecto-1 down the street to the firehouse. The sci-fi con had been great and he'd had the opportunity to spend time with friends he hadn't seen since the last con he had attended. Momentarily taking his eyes off the road, he grinned at the slumbering ghost beside him. Slimer had been a huge hit at the convention and the poor little spud was exhausted from all that showing off.

 

            "Wake up, Slimer. We're almost home."

 

            "Home?" The little green ghost blinked his eyes open, then looked up hopefully. "Food?"

 

            Ray rolled his eyes. "Sure. Why not? I'll make us some popcorn."

 

            Suddenly filled with energy, Slimer floated happily above the seat, all but bouncing off Ecto's dashboard in his eagerness.

 

            As he neared the firehouse, Ray saw with surprise the place was lit up the way it was when Peter threw one of his infamous parties. "Looks like somebody's home," he mused to himself and pulled the car into its accustomed parking spot. He had barely shut off the engine when Winston Zeddemore came striding over to the car, and behind him Ray could see Janine speaking on the phone.

 

            He climbed out of Ecto with a curious smile. "Hey, Winston, what's up? What's Janine doing here? Remember what Peter said about taking jobs? He'll have three kinds of fits if we—"

 

            Stantz broke off as Zeddemore dropped a hand on his shoulder. "We've been leaving messages all over that hotel for you, Ray," the black man said, a trace of edginess in his voice. "Nobody could find you."

 

            Ray answered automatically, "I went out to get something to eat with some..." His voice trailed off as he registered the tension in Zeddemore's voice. "What's wrong?" he asked quickly. "Has something happened to Egon or Peter?"

 

            The sound of the phone being slammed down brought both men around. Janine Melnitz was glaring at the offensive instrument, her mouth set in a tight line. "If I hear that recording one more time..."

 

            Ray's eyes flew to Winston's face. "Winston, _what's going on_?"

 

            The black man gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Janine and I heard it on the news," he said quietly. "A tornado hit Sheridan, Ohio. Wiped out half the town from the new reports."

 

            Ray's breath caught in his chest. "Peter and Egon," he whispered. "Oh, no. We've got to—"

 

            Winston shook his head. "Can't get through," he interrupted. "We've been trying for over an hour. All we get is that recording they give you when there's been some sort of disaster. Communications may not be restored for days."

 

            "Then Peter and Egon can't call us, either? They could be hurt or in the hospital and we won't even know?" Ray's voice rose in pitch as the full impact of what he had been told hit him. His gaze shot to Janine, who was still standing behind her desk, her face pinched with a mixture of fear and frustration, then back to Winston. "There's got to be _something_ we can do! Some way we can find out if they're okay!"

 

            The older man slid an arm around Ray's shoulders and steered him away from Ecto. "Right now, there is no way," he said quietly. "But CNN's running on-going coverage. The best thing we can do for now is find out all we can and be here in case Egon and Pete find a way to get through to us. Okay?"

 

            It wasn't okay; it wasn't okay at all. There had to be something they could do, some way they could find out if their friends were all right. But Ray allowed Zeddemore to guide him to the stairs and held out his hand to Janine as they passed. She accepted it without a word, squeezing it tightly as the three of them hurried up to the rec room.

 

 

 

            "Oh, my gosh!" Ray was sitting on the edge of the sofa, his brown eyes filled with horror as the scenes of destruction in Sheridan began to play across the TV screen. "Look at that! There's nothing left!"

 

            Winston had seen these pictures before, but he noted grimly that the impact didn't lessen with repeated viewings. "The reports earlier said part of the town wasn't even touched," he said, trying to offer some reassurance.

 

            "But which part?" Stantz murmured, his eyes never leaving the screen.

 

            Which part, indeed? Winston wondered silently. They had no way of knowing whether Peter and Egon had been in the untouched part of town, or whether they had been in the midst of the devastation. Already reports were coming in of injuries, deaths and people unaccounted for. Were Egon and Peter among them?

 

            The phone rang, and all three of them jumped to their feet. Janine reached it first, snatching the receiver up with a brusque, "Ghostbusters Central." Winston and Ray stood nearby, listening anxiously. After a moment, Janine's shoulders slumped a little. "Hello, Mrs. Spengler. Yes, we heard... No, we haven't heard from either Egon or Peter...of course we will...." After a few minutes a small smile touched her lips and her voice softened. "I know they are.... Let us know if you hear anything...." After she had gently replaced the phone in the cradle, she turned back to face them. "That was Egon's mom," she explained unnecessarily. "The Spengler family has been burning up the phone lines, but they don't know any more than we do. They haven't heard from Cyrus, either. She says she'll let us know if she hears anything."

 

            Nodding, Winston sank back onto the sofa, realizing it could be a very long time before they knew if Peter and Egon were safe.

 

            "I'm going out there," Ray announced suddenly. "I'll grab the first plane out and—"

 

            "You can't do that, Ray," Winston interrupted quietly from his position on the sofa.

 

            Stantz rounded on him, eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and determination. "I can't just sit here not knowing if they're dead or alive, Winston! I have to _do_ something! I've got to at least _try_ to find out!"

 

            Zeddemore jumped to his feet, placing two firm hands on the younger man's shoulders to hold him in place. "Ray, you can't go out there," he repeated firmly. "The National Guard isn't going to let you anywhere near Sheridan."

 

            "But I can—"

 

            "No," he said sternly, "you can't. Listen to me, Ray," he persisted when Stantz tried to interrupt, "this is where we need to be. This is where Egon or Peter will call, this is where Egon's mom will call...this is where they expect us to be."

 

            But Ray was stubbornly shaking his head, refusing to accept that logic. "There's gotta be something," he muttered to himself, brows gathered in fierce concentration. "There's gotta be some way...."

 

            Recognizing that look, Winston released Ray's shoulders and held his silence. Ray didn't share Egon's sharply-defined linear thought processes, nor did he possess Peter's gift for examining and determining every possible—and impossible—angle to get from here to there. Stantz' logic was more intuitive, more instinctive, and Winston knew if there was any possible solution to this dilemma, any way for them to, in effect, be in two places at once, Ray would come up with it.

 

            "Slimer!" Ray cried, his face lightening in triumph.

 

            Zeddemore took a step back, eying the occultist doubtfully. "Slimer?"

 

            The younger man nodded eagerly. "Winston, you remember when we were in Russia and sent Slimer back here for Egon's 'Big Trouble' box?"

 

            Cautiously, Winston nodded. "Yeah," he answered slowly.

 

            Ray's eyes shone with hope. "We can send Slimer to Ohio! He can find Peter and Egon, make sure they're okay or if they need help, and then come back here and tell us!"

 

            Zeddemore exchanged a look with Janine. The secretary's face had brightened a bit with reluctant hope, but he said carefully, "Ray, finding the firehall is one thing. But do you really think Slimer can find Uncle Cyrus' place?"

 

            "No," he said promptly. "But he could find Peter anywhere."

 

            "He's right, Winston," Janine chimed in eagerly. "You know how Slimer feels about Doctor V. Slimer could find him no matter where he's hiding."

 

            Winston took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It's one heck of a long shot, Ray."

 

            Solemn brown eyes met his. "But at least it's a shot. I can't just sit here and do nothing." Stantz' gaze slid over to the TV where more scenes of destruction were played across the screen. "They keep talking about people unaccounted for," he said softly, "about searching for survivors. But they're looking for people they _know_ —friends, neighbors, relatives. Egon and Peter were just _visiting_ in Sheridan. If anything happened to Cyrus, it's possible no one even knows to look for them." Ray turned back to look at him, his face filled with distress. "They could be buried in the rubble, hurt, trapped, and no one even knows they're there."

 

            That scenario had played through Winston's mind, as well, but he forced calmness into his own tone with an effort. "On the other hand, they could be trying to make their way to a working phone to call us and tell us not to worry."

 

            The auburn-haired man nodded, but the anxiety didn't lift from his eyes. "I hope you're right, Winston. But I've got a real bad feeling about this." Then he turned toward the kitchen. "Slimer!" he called urgently. "Come in here. I've got something real important for you to do."

 

 

 

            Yanking the keys out of the ignition, Egon jumped out of the car and ran up to his uncle's house, narrowly avoiding the debris that booby-trapped the path in the dark. Taking the steps to the porch three at a time, he yanked open the door and boomed, "Peter! Peter, are you here?!" His question was met with empty silence. He stood there for an eternity, ears straining for any sound of life within the house, then slowly, his hand slid from the handle and dropped to his side. He had been so sure, so certain that when he came back here, he would find Peter, alive, safe...

 

            Suddenly the task of staying on his feet was too much for his legs to handle. He stumbled to the edge of the porch and dropped down, his energy spent. After leaving the hospital, he had gone straight to the boarding house, hoping to find Peter there. What he found was Mrs. McKean gazing at her roofless home with stoic dismay. When the storm hit she had taken refuge in her root cellar and was unhurt. Now with the help of neighbors, she was already working to salvage items on the upper floor of her house. She hadn't seen Peter.

 

            He stayed only long enough to grab what she had managed to salvage of his and Peter's belongings, then it was back to the scene of the accident, hoping for some positive information. But Carl had informed him as gently as possible that it would be daylight before they had equipment out there to move the truck. He had stood there in the darkness staring at the grim tableau, refusing to believe Peter was in that car; refusing to accept that his friend's life could have been snuffed out so quickly, so senselessly; refusing to allow that their farewells of only a few hours ago—the easy smiles, the casual wave of hands, the familiar banter between them—had been a true farewell, their final parting.

 

            Cleaving to hope, he had returned to the hospital, doggedly checked the lists of patients, reluctantly made another journey to the morgue, and again searched the faces of the injured in the emergency room and parking lot. But that search, as well, had revealed nothing. So he had rushed back here to Cyrus', his final option.

 

            Blankly, he stared at the luminous face of his watch, shocked to discover how little real time had passed since the tornado. The only lights around him were the dim flickers from kerosene lamps in surrounding houses or blinking lights from emergency vehicles in the distance. Inside, Egon knew Cyrus had an emergency supply of candles and kerosene lamps, as well, but he couldn't summon the initiative to get up to retrieve them. Instead he wrapped himself in the cover of darkness, receiving some meager solace in being concealed by the night.

 

 

 

_Hello darkness, my old friend_

_I've come to talk with you again..._

 

 

 

            The haunting words and lilting melody came to Egon as clearly as if there were a radio playing by his side. He remembered that song well. Peter's taste in music for the most part was abominable, but back in college he had found something in Simon and Garfunkel's music that had struck a chord within him; perhaps he had identified in some way with some of their darker and more spell-binding lyrics. Sounds of Silence had been a particular favorite, and Egon had heard the song often when Peter was around—which was also often. Their taste in the arts had rarely coincided, but he remembered well the first time he had taken his young friend to Lincoln Center in an effort to introduce him to the more refined music of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. He had obtained the tickets and Peter had reluctantly accompanied him, complaining the whole way. Egon suspected he enjoyed part of the evening anyway, even if it had taken the 1812 Overture to wake him at the end. Egon smiled faintly at the memory. Peter had nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of the first cannon shot.

 

            Of course, a week later Peter had turned up with tickets to "a Broadway musical." Venkman had been vague enough about the identity of the show to make Egon a little suspicious, but he had theorized if it was a Broadway musical, it certainly must be civilized music, right? So he had accepted the invitation. The musical turned out to be Hair.

 

            His soft chuckle abruptly caught in his throat and he dropped his head into his hands, feeling the sting of tears behind his closed lids. He had been so sure when he returned here that this nightmare would finally end with finding Peter safe and alive. But it hadn't ended. He had no more options, no more places to look, no more possibilities to explore. Now the hours until dawn stretched in front of him like an endless purgatory. Tomorrow morning, in the light of day, they would remove the truck imprisoning the little red car, and he would have to stand there and watch and wait and know for certain... His hands tightened in his hair as the first harsh sob racked his body.

 

 

 

            Doctor Kellie Phillips made one last notation on the chart in her hands, then laid it aside and walked over to stand by the bed of her patient. The name 'John Doe' didn't really suit him, she reflected, but it would have to do until he came to and told them who he was. The local couple who had brought him in had been a pair of good Samaritans helping a stranger, and he'd had no identification or wallet to tell them who he was.

 

            Her grey eyes catalogued his injuries with professional concern: That arm was going to require surgery when he was up to it; the break had been a messy one and X-rays revealed some bone chips that would needed to be removed. There was inflammation in his right shoulder, also, and evidence of an injury not properly healed. But broken arms and inflamed shoulders were the least of his problems. From what the Oldhams had told her, this man had been hit by the broad side of a flying billboard and that little encounter had left him with a worrisome head injury. He had begun showing signs of restlessness, so she had stayed nearby, watching for any indication that he was fighting his way to consciousness. It had better be soon, she thought grimly. The longer he remained unconscious, the more likely it was that he had sustained some sort of brain damage.

 

            Lifting his right hand from the bed, she squeezed the lax fingers, watching his composed face for any reaction, no matter how slight. Fulton Medical Center wasn't a hospital; it was a small walk-in clinic that was often used as a staging area to stabilize the more seriously injured before whisking them on to Sheridan Hospital. That's exactly what she would have done with this man under any other circumstances. But Sheridan Hospital was inundated with other tornado victims, their facilities strained to the limit, so he was better off here. She was just about to replace his hand on the bed when she felt his fingers tighten weakly in a faint squeeze.

 

            Immediately she leaned over him, her voice loud and insistent, "Sir? Sir, can you hear me? If you can hear me, squeeze my hand." When there was no response, she squeezed his hand again, harder. "Come on, come on," she muttered, "fight your way back. You can do it." After what seemed an eternity, his fingers again twitched feebly and she broke into a wide grin. "All right!" Replacing his hand carefully on the covers, she plucked a tiny flashlight out of her coat pocket and gently lifted one of his eyelids, flicking the light in his eyes to test the reaction of his pupils. The brown-haired man groaned and lifted his right hand to bat feebly at the offending light. "Now, now," she admonished, easily pressing his hand back down, "let me do my job. If you open your eyes, I'll stop doing this."

 

            The pale face twisted in a grimace, but the dark lashes began fluttering, and soon clouded green eyes were peering up at her. There was more confusion than awareness in them, but this was the first, vital step. She smiled, slipping the flashlight back into her pocket.

 

            "My name is Doctor Phillips, and you're in Fulton Medical Center," she explained carefully. "You've got a broken arm and a nasty bump on your head, but you're going to be fine. Do you understand all that?"

 

            The brown-haired man's eyes slid shut as if he were too weary to hold them open any longer. "Head hurts," he complained drowsily.

 

            She smiled sympathetically, pleased at this show of lucidity. "I know. I'm afraid I can't give you anything for it quite yet."

 

            He blinked his eyes open again, a frown touching his features. "Egon...?"

 

            "Egon?" she repeated, leaning closer to hear his fading voice. "Who is Egon?" Then, "What is your name? Sir, can you tell me who you are?"

 

            One side of the brown-haired man's lips curled upwards in what might been considered a cocky grin. "'m famous."

 

            Phillips stared at him in a mixture of surprise and exasperation. "Please, sir, tell me your name. Tell me who you are so I can contact your family."

 

            "Fam'ly." The man gave a sigh as his eyes slid shut again. "Call Egon..."

 

            The physician watched as his breathing settled into the deep, even rhythm that indicated normal sleep, then sighed also and straightened. "Egon," she murmured. Well, obviously there was someone out there who was looking for and worried about him. But unfortunately she had no idea who that someone was, because she had no idea who this man was. As she watched his chest rise and fall easily, a small smile relieved her tired features. But as least this 'Egon' wouldn't have to come identify a corpse; it looked like John Doe was going to pull through.

 

            Brushing a stray strand of auburn hair out of her eyes, she gave a nod of satisfaction; she'd have Alice monitor his vitals, but early indications were good. Feeling better than she had in hours, Doctor Phillips retrieved his chart and left the room.

 

            She had been gone only seconds when a blob of green ectoplasm popped down through the ceiling. Slimer looked frantically around the small room, squealing with delight when he spotted Peter. He started to dive at the still psychologist, then stopped, looking around uneasily. He recognized that smell, and it scared him. It wasn't like the scent in Egon's lab, even when the physicist was involved in one of his smellier experiments; it was the unnerving odor that always surrounded one of the guys when they were really hurt. It was a _hospital_ smell. The little ghost stared in alarm at Peter as he realized his friend wasn't simply asleep. If he was in a hospital, Peter must be _hurt_.

 

            His eyes never leaving the still form, Slimer floated down until he was hovering right above the brown-haired Ghostbuster's face, staring at the patch of bandage covering his left temple and the metal brace that encased one arm. "Aw, poor Peter." Leaning over, he carefully planted a messy kiss on the man's cheek, pleased at the little smear of green he left behind; at least Peter would know he had been here. It had been amazingly easy to find Peter, even this far away from the firehall. All he really had to do was concentrate; after all, he loved Peter. He looked around, frowning at the empty room. Egon wasn't here. That wasn't right. Egon should be _here_. If Egon wasn't here with Peter, then maybe he was in trouble or hurt, too, and it was up to Slimer to find him.

 

            Looking back at Peter, the ghost very gently patted Venkman on the chest. "Don't worry, Peter," he said, his voice filled with determination, "Slimer find Egon." With that promise, he turned away and shot back up through the ceiling into the Ohio night.

 

 

 

            "Egon!"

 

            Spengler's head shot up at the sound of that familiar, but unexpected shriek. Instinctively he knew what was coming, but in the darkness he was unable to see it until it was too late. Something cold and slimy splattered into him and he felt skinny arms wrap around his neck. "Slimer?" The little ghost was holding onto him for dear life, babbling incoherently in his ear. "Slimer, how on earth...?" He managed to pry the clinging arms off and carefully held the ghost at arms' length. "Slimer, how did you get here?"

 

            "Ray! Ray told Slimer to find you!"

 

            "Ray told you..." Egon's eyes slid shut. _Ray_. Of course. Ray would have heard about the tornado and when he was unable to get through by phone, had sent Slimer to find them, just as they had sent Slimer to New York from Russia that time. Egon let out a shaky breath, realizing he hadn't even taken the time to think about his friends back in New York; they must be going crazy—and his mother, he remembered with a pang. She didn't know what was going on, either. He was rudely brought out of his thoughts by Slimer tugging at his arm.

 

            "Egon, hurry!" the little ghost urged. "Peter!"

 

            His eyes snapped open at that. _Peter_. Oh God, somehow he had to get word to Ray and let him know about Peter. But he couldn't send that kind of message with Slimer. How could he send that kind of message at all?

 

            "Peter _hurt_!" Slimer insisted.

 

            Spengler gave the ghost a sharp look. "What did you say?"

 

            "Peter _hurt_ ," Slimer repeated insistently. "Help him!"

 

            "Peter's hurt?" Egon repeated carefully, his heart beginning to thud painfully in his chest. "What do you mean Peter's hurt?" Had Slimer been to the car? Had he found Peter there...?

 

            Slimer looked scared. "In bad place."

 

            Spengler swallowed hard. "What bad place, Slimer?" he persisted, smothering the urge to take the little ghost by the shoulders and shake the answers out of him. Was it possible? Oh dear God, was it possible Peter was really _alive_?

 

            The green spud floated down right in front of his face, his yellow eyes wide with alarm. "Hospital!"

 

            The physicist sucked his breath in so sharply he nearly choked. "Peter's in a hospital?"

 

            Slimer bobbed his head so hard he sent little splats of ectoplasm everywhere. "Uh huh, uh huh! Peter hurt. Egon help him?" he asked hopefully.

 

            Spengler shot to his feet, his heart thumping so hard it was like a pounding in his ears. "Take me to him," he ordered. "Take me to him _now_ , Slimer."

 

            Slimer's eyes widened at the sharpness of Egon's tone, but he immediately nodded. He barely got the words, "Okay, Egon," out of his mouth before Spengler had grabbed him by the arm and was running to the car, pulling the little ghost after him.

 

 

 

            Doctor Phillips took a long drink of coffee, then closed her eyes and waited for the jolt of caffeine to hit her system. Her twelve-hour shift had been up four hours ago, but the other doctor on call had gone to Sheridan to offer his services to the beleaguered hospital. She opened her eyes when her nurse, Alice Tamens, walked into the small office. "How's our John Doe doing?"

 

            "Still sleeping like a baby." The matronly gray-haired woman winked. "And not a bad looking baby at that. And no wedding ring," she added, giving the physician a meaningful look.

 

            Phillips sighed as she returned to her coffee. Alice had been trying to pair her off with every eligible male in Hamilton County ever since she had moved here a year and a half ago. "Why don't you take a break, Alice?" she suggested, getting to her feet. "I'll stay with him for a while. He's still pretty disoriented and I don't want him waking up alone."

 

            Alice nodded as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Would you like me to call out for something to eat? You haven't eaten since lunch, you know."

 

            The doctor rotated her stiff shoulders, suddenly aware of the hunger pangs rumbling in her stomach. "That's not a bad idea. Why don't we—" She broke off as she heard the outer door open and a bass voice demand, "Where is he?" She and Alice exchanged a puzzled look as rapid footsteps sounded outside the office.

 

            "What in the world...?" she murmured and walked outside her office, trailed by Alice. She was just in time to see something small and green streak through the air, followed by a tall blond man, his long face pinched and grim, striding purposefully toward the small patient's room in the back. "Excuse me, sir," she began, "but you can't go—" The man passed her as if she weren't even there—or as if he didn't see her. From the look of intense concentration on his face, Kellie wasn't sure he _did_ see her. Alice moved her considerable bulk forward, ready to stop this stranger by force if necessary, but Phillips raised a hand and gave her head a little shake.

 

            "But, Doctor—"

 

            "Let him go," she instructed. "It's all right." She wasn't sure how she knew that, but she sensed instinctively this man was no threat. "Stay here." She started to follow the blond man, but when Alice touched her arm, she paused.

 

            "I'll be right here if you need me," Alice said firmly.

 

            With a little smile Kellie patted her arm then moved away and followed the tall intruder. She stood in the doorway of her patient's room and watched as he came to a stop by John Doe's bed. His eyes rivetted to the still form, he raised a clearly unsteady hand, then very gently, and almost as if he were afraid to make contact, rested it on the brown-haired man's forehead. As soon as their skin made contact, his eyes slid shut, and she could hear the explosive sigh that was almost a sob.

 

            "You're alive."

 

            It was barely a whisper, but the words travelled across the room as if they had been shouted. With a start, she realized that even though he had been standing there beside the bed, he hadn't been certain until that very moment that the other man was really alive.

 

            The blond man moved his hand, carefully brushing back the dark, tangled hair, then let it rest on the sleeping man's head, his long fingers threaded through the thick strands. "Peter Venkman," he whispered, his voice stretched so thin it nearly broke, "if you ever scare me like this again..." He squeezed his eyes shut and in a slightly stronger voice commanded, "Don't you _ever_ scare me like this again."

 

            As loathe as she was to intrude on this reunion, Phillips stepped forward. The tall man looked shaken and exhausted, and she wasn't sure how much longer he was going to be able to stay on his feet. She was uncomfortably aware of that floating green blob of something over his right shoulder, but she steadfastly ignored it as she walked toward the bed. "Excuse me," she said quietly, careful not to startle him. "I'm Doctor Phillips."

 

            The blond stranger looked up, but it was several moments before his eyes cleared and he acknowledged her presence. "Is Peter all right?" he asked bluntly.

 

            "The prognosis looks good," she assured him. With her petite frame, she came barely halfway up his chest and had to tilt her head to look him in the eye. "He's got a broken arm and a concussion, but he woke up a little while ago and he was lucid, so that's a good sign. Right now he's just sleeping. He'll probably sleep for another hour or two, then wake up with a hellacious headache."

 

            The blond-haired man looked back down at his friend, a tiny smile relieving his worried features as he gently brushed aside a thick strand of hair to get a better look at the bandage underneath. "He can get into more trouble than anyone I've ever known," he murmured. Then his smile faltered. "When I saw his car I was sure..."

 

            "He had no identification on him when he was brought in," Phillips said quickly, hoping to divert him from that memory. "I didn't know who to contact."

 

            "His name is Peter Venkman," the man supplied, his eyes still on his friend.

 

            "And you are...?" she prompted.

 

            He looked up, startled. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "Egon Spengler."

 

            She had thought the name Peter Venkman sounded familiar, but now that she had added Egon Spengler and that little floating blob to the recipe, she finally realized who she had here in her little medical center. She had heard of the Ghostbusters, of course, and knew that Egon Spengler was originally from the area. "So you're Egon." One blond eyebrow arched inquiringly. "When Mr. Venkman was conscious, I tried to find out who he was so I could contact his family, and he said, 'Call Egon.'"

 

            Spengler at first looked surprised, then his blue eyes warmed as he returned them to Venkman's composed face. "I didn't even know this place existed," he said softly. "I'm visiting my family and Peter came along. After the tornado hit I looked everywhere for him. When I couldn't find him at Sheridan Hospital or anywhere else he might have gone, I didn't know where else to look."

 

            His eyes darkened with those memories and Phillips said quietly, "He's going to be all right, Mr. Spengler. I'll want to keep him here for a couple of days to monitor him, then he can be released. He'll need some surgery on that arm and there's some fluid build-up in his right shoulder—"

 

            "I knew he was having trouble with that shoulder," Spengler muttered, frowning at the sleeping man.

 

            "It's nothing serious, but he'll have to have it drained periodically until we can get the inflammation cleared up."

 

            The blond man nodded, then looked up. "I'd like to stay with him."

 

            Although the request was delivered politely, Phillips had the feeling he wasn't asking her permission. She gestured at the sole chair in the room. "I'm afraid our accommodations aren't very comfortable."

 

            A tired smile touched Spengler's lips. "I've slept in worse," he said, and indicated Venkman, "and so has he. I'll be fine."

 

            The little floating blob, which had remained silent and stationary above Spengler's shoulder up to this time, now bobbed down to within inches of Peter's chest. "Peter okay?" it asked in a high-pitched voice.

 

            Kellie's initial reaction had been to take a step back from the green ghost, but she held her ground, watching as Egon assured it solemnly, "Peter will be fine, Slimer."

 

            "Slimer did good?"

 

            Mild amusement lit Spengler's eyes. "Yes, Slimer, you did very good." He looked at Kellie, "Do you have a phone I could use, Doctor Phillips? I need to call friends and family back in New York and let them know we're all right."

 

            "Of course. You can use my office."

 

            Spengler turned to the little ghost and instructed, "You stay with Peter, Slimer. I'm going to make a few phone calls, then I'll be right back."

 

            "Okey dokey, Egon." Slimer settled down contentedly on Peter's pillow and smiled triumphantly at Spengler. "Slimer won't leave."

 

            Egon opened his mouth to say something, then just gave his head a shake. "I'm sure Peter will appreciate your dedication," he said dryly and followed Phillips from the room.

 

 

 

            Doctor Phillips stood in the doorway of her patient's room, unable to contain a smile at the scene inside. Peter Venkman was still asleep, and by his side in the most uncomfortable chair she had ever spent time in was Egon Spengler, also lost in sleep. After he had made the requested phone calls in her office, he had returned immediately to Venkman's side and planted himself there for the duration. Alice had taken one look at the exhaustion etched into his face and had promptly ordered in a hot meal for him.

 

            He had been touchingly surprised when she brought him a tray laden with a hot roast beef sandwich, baked potato, green beans and apple pie, but had offered no protest and, indeed, had eaten every bite. (Or rather, Alice reported, every bite that the green floating potato hadn't snatched.) Not long after that he had dozed off, Venkman's right hand clasped in his own. She and Alice had been occupied for the last hour with an infant with a high fever. Now that the baby was stabilized, she had come to check on her other patient. Turning away, she returned to her office, confident that if Peter Venkman so much as twitched, his friend would know it.

 

 

 

            As Peter drifted slowly and painfully toward awareness, he tried to force his brain into action. Not an easy task considering the headache that was splitting his skull in two, but there had to be a reason he was feeling so rotten, and he wanted to know what that was. Where was he, what had happened, and—most important—where were the guys? He needed answers and he needed them _now_. Convinced if he opened his eyes his head would explode, he settled for shifting his head slightly, grimacing when his cheek encountered something disgustingly cold and familiar. "Yuck," he muttered.

 

            "Peeee-terr!"

 

            The high-pitched shriek in his ear nearly sent him spiraling into unconsciousness again. He moaned, squeezing his eyes even more tightly shut.

 

            "Peter!"

 

            This was another voice, a blessedly familiar bass voice full of anxious concern, and he turned his head in its direction. Almost immediately he felt a warm hand on his forehead, stilling the movement.

 

            "Easy, Peter," the soft voice rumbled by his ear. "You've got a head injury. Don't try to move too quickly."

 

            It was only then he became aware that his left arm seemed to be immobilized and right hand was encased in something warm. When he tried to move his stiff fingers, he elicited an immediate response as long fingers gently squeezed his hand.

 

            "I'm here, Peter."

 

            "Egon." His voice came out in a weak rasp, but relief surged through his battered body and he forced his aching eyes open. For some moments everything was blurred, then slowly the well-known blue eyes, filled with a mixture of relief and concern, came into focus behind red-rimmed frames. This time he managed to inject some strength into his voice. "Hey, Spengs."

 

            "Hello, Peter." The response was as calm and composed as ever, but the strain evident on Spengler's face set off warning bells in Peter's fuzzy brain.

 

            "You okay?"

 

            "Am _I_ okay?" Egon's hand tightened around Venkman's and the psychologist saw his friend's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard. "Yes, I'm fine. And so are you," he added in a very level voice. "You've got a broken arm and a concussion, but you're going to be _just fine_."

 

            Peter felt himself relaxing under the physicist's calming influence. If Egon said he was going to be fine, then he was going to be fine, even though he didn't particularly feel like it right now.

 

            Blue eyes searched his face for a moment. "Do you know where we are?"

 

            "Ohio," he answered promptly, then wondered how he had known that. Maybe his brain wasn't as scrambled as he thought.

 

            The blond man's face cleared at that and he nodded, a smile touching his tired features. "That's right. Do you remember what happened?"

 

            Venkman frowned. That one was harder. He explored his aching head, searching for any stray memories that might be bouncing around in there. "Professor Malcolm," he said suddenly. "I went to visit him."

 

            The smile never left Egon's face, but it tightened just a little. "Anything else?" he prompted casually.

 

            Peter allowed his eyes to slide shut as he strained to recall any more details, but he finally conceded defeat with a tired sigh. "Sorry, big guy," he mumbled. "That's it. What happened? Did I wreck the car?" Suddenly his eyes popped open as that new thought registered. "Is that what happened? I wrecked? Was anyone else hurt—"

 

            "No, no one else was hurt," Egon assured him hastily. "It's all right, Peter. Doctor Phillips said you may not remember what happened. It's not unexpected with a head injury."

 

            Venkman searched the older man's face as much as his aching eyes would allow. "What _did_ happen, Egon?" he asked steadily, not really sure he wanted to hear the answer, but knowing he had to. _And why do you look like you haven't slept in a week?_

 

            The physicist hesitated. "Perhaps later might be better—"

 

            " _Now_ , Spengs." He turned his hand in Egon's so he was gripping the older man's fingers. "Please."

 

            Egon studied him for a moment, his face solemn, then nodded. "All right, Peter."

 

            For the next few minutes Peter listened as Egon recounted the events of the evening: the twister that had hit Sheridan, what had happened to him out on the road, how he had been brought here to Fulton, Egon's desperate search for him or any shred of evidence that he was still alive, and Slimer's part in finally reuniting them. He stared the physicist, suddenly understanding what had ingrained the lines of strain into his friend's face and why there were shadows in the depths of the blue eyes.

 

            "You thought I was in that car," he whispered, the terrible realization hitting him like a punch to his gut. "You thought..."

 

            "I had explored every option, every possibility." Egon's voice, which had been remarkably calm and steady throughout his entire narrative, began to give under the effort of maintaining his composure. "I didn't know where else to look. I saw the car and I thought...I was afraid when they finally lifted off that truck..." Suddenly Spengler gave his head a sharp shake. "Damn it, Peter, didn't I tell you to listen to the radio?" he exploded in a burst of anger. "Didn't I tell you to watch the sky? Didn't I tell you that you can't outrun tornados?! What kind of idiotic stunt was that—" His voice broke completely and he quickly averted his head, unable to continue.

 

            Peter breathed, "Aw, Spengs." He understood this particular kind of anger all too well. He used it himself as a refuge on those occasions when he came face-to-face with the possibility  of losing one of his friends. The anger was easier for him to deal with than the soul-numbing fear that came with having to confront the prospect of such a loss. At such times, those rages seemed to be the only thing that kept him sane. He understood that about himself and used his anger accordingly. But Egon had never been one to use anger, either as a weapon or a defense. To see him doing so now shook Peter more than just a little.

 

            Carefully slipping his hand out of the physicist's death grip, he eased his right arm around the older man's neck, gritting his teeth at the scream of pain in his shoulder. Ignoring that for the moment, he gave Spengler a gentle tug. He could feel the physicist stiffening in half-hearted resistance and he tightened his arm in determined response. After another second or two of the futile tug-o-war, Egon relaxed, allowing Peter to pull him down into a one-armed hug. Venkman was still a little fuzzy on the time frame, but he knew enough to realize Egon had spent several terrible, gut-wrenching hours out there alone in the aftermath of the tornado, desperately searching for him or at least proof of his survival; and he knew that Spengler would have exhausted every possibility—and himself—before finally admitting there were no more options. _Egon thought I died out there._ That realization made him tighten his arm more, bringing his friend even closer. "Sorry to put you through that, buddy," he whispered. Egon's response was to ease his arms under Peter's torso in a careful but fierce embrace. They stayed like that until Peter could feel the taut muscles in Egon's shoulders relax a fraction. Taking that cue, he eased his own hold and moved his hand to the back of the older man's head, gently tugging at the blond tail there. "Hey, next time you give me advice, I promise to listen, okay?"

 

            There was a snort of shaky laughter in his ear. "No, you won't."

 

            Venkman grinned. "Okay, but I'll _pretend_ to listen, how's that?"

 

            Egon made a move to pull back and Peter loosened his grip, allowing him to sit up. Spengler's glasses had slid down to the end of his nose and, with a tired grin, Venkman pushed them back into place, earning himself a stern look.

 

            "The next time," Egon intoned, " _I_ rent the car."

 

            Peter wanted to continue the banter, knowing how badly Egon needed it, but he was rapidly losing the battle to keep his eyes open. Just their brief conversation had worn him out more than he thought possible. He yawned widely. "You'd rent a Buick," he complained in a mumble, his eyes sliding shut.

 

            "Yes, I would," Spengler retorted, and Peter could feel the covers being tucked snugly in around him. "And it would have a roof and a real trunk and a back seat and the radio station would play only classical music..."

 

 

 

            "Gin."

 

            Under any other circumstances Egon could have found amusement in the look of utter disgust on Peter's face as the younger man threw down his cards, but he knew the reason Venkman was off his game was the monstrous headache he had been nursing for a large part of the day. Never before had Egon won three straight games of gin rummy from the card-canny psychologist. Surreptitiously, he studied his friend's pain-pinched face, debating whether he should risk the Wrath of Venkman and call Doctor Phillips.

 

            Glancing up, Peter saw his look of concern, correctly deduced the reason behind it, and immediately assumed a put-upon air. "I hope you're proud of yourself, Egon. Taking advantage of a sick man. You never would've won that last game if I'd been myself and you know it."

 

            That was the tone Peter usually took whenever he was feeling truly rotten and he caught Egon worrying about it. The other Ghostbusters all knew Venkman automatically complained about anything he thought he could get away with—the more trivial the imagined injury, the louder the complaint. What he didn't know was that they had all become wise to that game a long time ago and it was when he _stopped_ complaining that they really began to worry.

 

            Egon snorted as he gathered up the cards, willing for now to play the game. "Just who is it you were being, Peter?"

 

            The brown-haired man threw him a sour look as he tried to settle back more comfortably in his pillows. This was the beginning of his third day in Fulton Medical Center and while he was still suffering from headaches so intense they robbed him of needed sleep and occasionally brought tears to his eyes, he was also beginning to get restless. Never an ideal patient under the best of circumstances, Venkman hated hospitals with a passion, and while this wasn't technically a hospital, the surroundings were close enough to make him exceedingly testy. To make matters worse, the room lacked the usual amenities of a regular hospital room, most notably a TV. With the headaches allowing Peter little rest, and no other diversions available, Egon had been doing his best to entertain his convalescing friend. He had managed to scrounge up a deck of cards from Alice and had picked up a juvenile chess set and checkers game in a local toy store in hopes of keeping the psychologist occupied. Usually a fair match at chess, Peter had conceded the game early on when a headache intruded on his strategy, and thereafter they had stuck to cards.

 

            "I could rest a lot better in a motel room, you know," Venkman announced petulantly. "With a TV and a double bed and a nice big tub for a long, hot soak..."

 

            Egon patiently shuffled the cards as Peter rambled on, outlining all the reasons he should be released from this torture chamber and allowed to return to civilization. Actually, last night Doctor Phillips had told Egon privately she was considering releasing Peter today, but hadn't told him because she didn't want him to get his hopes up. He'd developed a fever the night before and she wanted to make sure that was cleared up before she let him go. Egon knew Peter was eager to return home to New York, but both he and Phillips had warned him that flying was out of the question with his head injury. For his important part in finding both Peter and Egon, Slimer had been praised highly, then in deference to Peter's need for quiet, had been sent back to the firehall with promises of all the pizza he could eat.

 

            Spengler watched Peter as the psychologist rubbed at his forehead. Those headaches were beginning to wear on him, but the first pain medication Phillips had tried him on had made him so nauseous that now he refused anything stronger than aspirin. What he needed was a better diversion than a game of cards, Egon mused, and if everything went as planned, he should have that before the day was out.

 

            He held out the deck of shuffled cards. "Deal?"

 

            Venkman eyed the cards with distaste, then raised his eyes to study Egon. "You don't have to stay here and entertain me, you know."

 

            Under any other conditions, that would have been true, Egon knew. A man who had raised the act of taking naps to an art form, if Peter had been able to rest enough to sleep, he would have reveled in his solitude. But, already bored to distraction and battered enough from his injuries to be thoroughly uncomfortable, isolation was really the last thing Peter wanted right now.

 

            "It's mutual entertainment, Peter," he said matter-of-factly. "Uncle Cyrus is still out helping with the clean-up and electricity still hasn't been restored to much of Sheridan. Mrs. McKean's house is without a roof, so I can't return there." He gazed at Peter over the tops of his frames. "My choices are to stay at a motel near here and spend my days with you...or accept my cousins' invitation and spend my time with Ronald and Robert."

 

            That brought a slow grin to Venkman's face. "Some choice," he said dryly. "Guess I won by a mile." Egon's knee was close enough for him to give it a tap with his good hand. "What I mean is, you don't have to stick around here all the time. Why don't you go out and have a little fun or something?"

 

            "Fun?" Egon repeated. "May I remind you, Peter, that you were the one who picked the lock on my suitcase and removed my P.K.E. meter before we left for the airport? Perhaps if I had that—"

 

            "Spengs, you don't need a P.K.E. meter to have fun," Venkman interrupted, exasperated. "Haven't you been paying attention all these years? Why aren't you off your butt asking Doctor Phillips out to dinner or something?"

 

            Spengler's jaw dropped. "Doctor Phillips? Why would I—"

 

            "Haven't you seen the way she's been eying you up? Egon, the woman is _interested_. Alice thinks you two would make a great couple."

 

            "Alice?" Egon felt his face begin to warm with indignation. "When did you and Nurse Tamens discuss—"

 

            Peter waved a negligent hand, saying breezily, "Over my back rub this morning. You know, that woman has a terrific pair of hands."

 

            Egon could only shake his head. At least now he knew why Peter had suddenly changed his attitude toward Doctor Phillips. When he had finally come to long enough to get a good look at the pretty physician, he had gazed into those beautiful gray eyes and had instantly fallen in love in typical Venkman fashion. Kellie Phillips seemed to know the outrageous flirting was all a game and had done her best to discourage his efforts, informing him that he should be using his strength to recover, not chase uninterested doctors. That, of course, only made Peter try all the harder. But then inexplicably he backed off, stopped the teasing and cajoling, and slipped into into the deportment of courteous charm he accorded all members of the opposite sex. It wasn't like Venkman to give up the chase so easily, and Egon had wondered about it at the time. But now it all made sense—or at least as much sense as Peter ever made in matters of the heart: he thought Doctor Phillips had shown an interest in Egon—or perhaps he and Nurse Tamens had concocted their own plans for the two of them—and he had stepped aside.

 

            Egon laid the deck of cards on Peter's hospital tray. "Gin, Hearts or Poker?" he asked, firmly changing the subject.

 

            Venkman stared at the deck for a moment, then dropped his head back against the pillows. "Can't tell the difference between the clubs and spades anymore," he admitted ruefully. "And you're starting to look a little fuzzy around the edges, too. Why don't you go get some air? You've been cooped up here as long as I have. I think I'll try to grab a nap."

 

            Egon studied him for a moment, his face thoughtful, then nodded. "All right, but let me get you something first." Before Peter could say anything, he ducked into the tiny bathroom, held a washcloth under the faucet for few moments, then came back out. Walking over to the one window in the room, he drew the curtains against the morning sun, then sat down in the chair beside Peter. Carefully folding the cloth lengthwise, he ordered, "Close your eyes." Venkman hesitated only an instant, then did as he was told. Gently, Egon laid the cloth over his closed lids. Peter flinched at the coolness of the rag, then slowly relaxed with a sigh.

 

            "That feels good," he murmured.

 

            Spengler nodded, smoothing the cloth. "It's an old remedy, but it works. When I was a child I used to have migraines. Mother would come up to my room, close all the blinds, and put a cold cloth over my eyes. Many times that worked when the medication didn't."

 

            "Mmmm." Peter snuggled a little deeper into the covers. "Some of your mom's remedies are okay, Spengs."

 

            "Some are more pleasant than others," he agreed dryly. "Especially the ones that don't require a blender." He settled back in his chair, modulating his deep voice to a quiet, even tone. "That was just part of the remedy, however. She'd stay with me, sometimes she'd read to me, sometimes she'd just talk. The idea was to get me to concentrate on her voice so I would stop focusing on the headache. It usually took some time, but inevitably I would do just that, and eventually I would fall asleep. The headache was usually gone when I woke up."

 

            Venkman's lips twitched. "So, what story are you gonna tell me, Egon?"

 

            Undeterred by Venkman's teasing tone, Egon answered, "I thought I'd tell you about my latest theory concerning the application of quantum physics in paranormal detection and elimination. I realize my last experiment in that vein ended rather badly, but the insurance did cover most of the cost of replacing the roof, and I'm sure this time I have made the proper adjustments. We'll simply make sure we take the appropriate precautions..."

 

 

 

            Peter woke up slowly and with great reluctance. He felt a little disoriented, but it wasn't the same kind of confusion that had assaulted him when he woke up with that concussion; this was the normal kind of pleasant befuddlement one encountered after waking up from a long, satisfying nap in the middle of the day. Damn, it felt good. Even his headache was gone. Mama Spengler strikes again. And, of course, the lecture Mama Spengler's little boy gave on quantum physics didn't hurt either. That was guaranteed to put _anyone_ to sleep. Now he knew what to do the next time he suffered from insomnia; he'd simply wake Egon and ask him to explain his most recent esoteric theory on one thing or another. Instant sleep.

 

            With a satisfied sigh, he reached up and pulled off the cloth. The room was still dark, but he could make out a form in the chair by his bed.

 

            "Egon?"

 

            The sound of his voice must have startled the physicist out of a snooze because he jumped. "Peter?"

 

            Venkman's jaw dropped. "Ray?"

 

            "Peter, you're awake!"

 

            "Ray, is that you?"

 

            A weight dipped the bed as Ray Stantz sat down by his side. "Of course it's me, you big dope." It was Ray's familiar cheerful voice, but there was a thread of strain running through it that reminded Peter that after the tornado hit, Ray and Winston had been sitting back in New York for hours without knowing if he and Egon were alive or dead. A second later he felt himself being lifted gently into a very tight hug. "I fell asleep waiting for you to wake up," Ray whispered. "Egon said you were having really bad headaches and not to wake you." Abruptly, his strong arms tightened until they threatened to cut off Peter's air supply. "I'm so glad you're okay!"

 

            Peter hooked his good arm around his friend's neck, tightening it to bring Ray even closer. He hated worrying his friends under any circumstances, and he knew this time they had been worried out of their minds. "'Course I'm okay, Ray," he said softly, reaching up to give the auburn hair an affectionate tug. "It takes more than a little ol' tornado to put Peter Venkman down for the count."

 

            Ray's answer was muffled against his shoulder. "I know."

 

            _No_ , Peter thought soberly, _you didn't,_ and gave the younger man another firm squeeze before relaxing his grip and quickly assuming an aggrieved tone. "Hey, didn't I just talk to you on the phone this morning? You didn't say anything about flying out. Since when did you start keeping secrets from Uncle Peter?"

 

            The light tone had the desired effect and Ray pulled back, grinning. "Didn't fly," he announced gleefully. "Winston and I drove Ecto out. We called you from a phone booth. Egon didn't want us to tell you we were coming; he wanted you to be surprised." The occultist had claimed his hand and now gave it a little pat. "We couldn't just sit there in New York while you were out here like this. Besides, since the doctor doesn't want you flying, we figured we could drive you back. It'll be more comfortable in Ecto; you'll have plenty of room to stretch out and sleep and we could take our time going back. Isn't that a great idea?"

 

            Ray's enthusiasm was infectious; Peter found himself grinning in response, his spirits lifting already. He couldn't think of any better medicine than being surrounded by his buddies and being thoroughly and completely pampered. "It sure is. Where is Professor Spengler anyway? And Winston?"

 

            "Winston took Egon out for something to eat; they should be back soon." The younger man's cheerful tone faltered just a bit and Peter felt Ray's fingers tighten around his hand. "I wanted to be here when you woke up," he said in a quieter voice. "When Winston and I heard about the tornado and saw all those pictures on TV, all sorts of awful things went through my mind. Even after Egon called and we knew you were both alive, he sounded so—so _scared_. I've never heard him like that before, Peter. I mean, by that time he knew you hadn't been in that car and the doctor said she thought you were going to be okay, but hearing Egon like that...it scared _me_ , too. I just knew I had to be out here—with both of you."

 

            Peter studied the youthful face of his friend and saw the same shadows in Ray's eyes that he had seen in Egon's. Time would banish them eventually, of course, but right now they served as a reminder to Peter what an important part he played in his friends' lives—and what a very important part they played in his. Turning his hand over, he gripped Stantz' fingers. "I'm glad you are, Ray," he said seriously. "For both of us." Then he gave the hand in his grasp a little shake. "Drove straight through, didn't you?" he asked sternly.

 

            The younger man shrugged, a tired grin lightening his face. "It wasn't so bad. Winston and I spelled each other."

 

            Venkman gave him a long look, then tugged at the hand in his grip. "C'mere, pal." Ray didn't resist as Peter pulled him down to his chest and hooked his arm around the occultist's neck to anchor him there.

 

            "I was so scared, Peter. I was afraid...I thought I might have lost you both!"

 

            Peter nodded, feeling Ray's soft hair brush his cheek. Winston, of course, would have given Ray all the support he could have hoped for while they were waiting for word, but no amount of support could have eased Ray's fears that he may have lost his two oldest and closest friends in one fell swoop. "I know," he said gently. "But it's over now, Tex. Just a bad memory."

 

            "It is that," Ray agreed fervently.

 

            Suddenly muted light flooded the room as the door was carefully pushed open on silent hinges. "Glad to see you're finally awake, homeboy."

 

            Ray pulled up at the sound of the familiar voice, grinning as he turned to see Winston and Egon standing in the doorway. "He just woke up a few minutes ago," he announced.

 

            "That was quite a nap, Peter," Egon observed, his sharp eyes sweeping the psychologist's face for any signs of lingering pain. "Are you feeling better?"

 

            "I think we've found your new calling, Spengs," Peter said brightly, pleased that Egon looked a little more refreshed after his outing with Winston. "We're going to tape your lectures and sell them as a combination insomnia/headache cure. Think of the big bucks we could make!"

 

            "And you're certainly sounding like your old self," Zeddemore said dryly, moving to stand at the other side of the bed so as to not displace Ray. His tone was droll, but there was a serious light in his dark eyes as he clasped Peter's good hand between his two. "Leave it to you to find yourself a tornado. Gonna have to keep you in the city if you can't stay out of trouble."

 

            "Well, it's not like I went _looking_ for it," Venkman objected, acknowledging the warmth in Zeddemore's eyes with a happy grin. With Winston on one side, Ray on the other, and Egon standing beside Ray with that deeply contented look on his face, he felt as warm and loved as a puppy in a basket. Nothing could spoil that feeling. Nothing.

 

            "Peee-terrrr!"

 

            He didn't even have time to duck. The streaking green glob of slimy ectoplasm plastered itself to his cheek as if it would never let go. "Slimer!"

 

            "Oh, we forgot to tell you, Peter," Ray managed between chuckles, "we brought Slimer."

 

            "Yeah," Winston piped in, "he missed you."

 

            "No, that's the problem," Venkman gritted, trying to pry the little spud away, "he _never_ misses me, or my clean shirts, or my pillow, or my sheets..."

 

            A warm hand on his shoulder stopped his tirade and he glanced up to see Egon gazing down at him, his face solemn, although there was a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "After all, Peter, Slimer did play a very important part in finding you—and bringing us together." Spengler's long fingers tightened on his shoulder and the humor abruptly faded from his voice. "It's true I would have discovered the next day that you hadn't been in that car, but I'm very glad I didn't have to wait that long."

 

            "Hey, I'm glad, too," Peter said quickly, reaching up to pat the physicist's hand. "So, okay, Spud, I owe you," he admitted grudgingly.

 

            Slimer positively beamed. "Slimer _loves_ Peter!" he announced, then asked hopefully, "Peter love Slimer?"

 

            Glancing up, Peter saw Ray's earnest face. "Go on, Peter," the younger man urged. "Tell him."

 

            "Not if you hung me by my toes," he retorted flatly. "Ray, do you have any idea what that could do to my image..." He trailed off as he was confronted with three expectant faces. His eyes slid from one face to the other, stopping finally with Egon, who was giving him that 'Peter-you-know-what-you-should-do' look that he was so good at. The problem was, he _did_ know what he should do. With a sigh that would have done a martyr proud, he turned to Slimer, who was hovering anxiously just a few inches away. "Yes," he said, forcing the words through clenched teeth, "Peter loves Slimer." The fact was, the little spud wasn't all that bad—except when he had cleaned out their newly stocked refrigerator or slimed Peter's freshly laundered shirts—but it didn't do to encourage him. If Slimer was this unbearable when he thought Peter wanted to blast him, what was he going to be like if he thought the psychologist actually _liked_ him? As if reading Peter's thoughts, the little ghost immediately curled up on his pillow and closed his eyes to take a nap, a satisfied smile on his face. Muffled chuckles greeted this show of affection and Venkman threw a sour look at the other Ghostbusters, grumbling, "See what you've done? Now I'll never be able to get rid of him. I hope you guys are happy."

 

            As soon as the words left his mouth, Peter saw a solemn look pass between his friends. Then, slowly, a happy smile broke out on Ray's face, followed by a grin on Winston's. A moment later Peter felt Egon's arm slide carefully around his shoulders and he looked up to find himself engulfed by a warm gaze. "Yes, Peter," the physicist said simply. "I think you can safely say that we are all _very_ happy."

 

            And even the slime on his pillow couldn't ruin that moment.

 

**_< fin>_ **

 

 


End file.
